Skyscape
by joban-disaster
Summary: The life and times. Aramis/Anne. Oneshots based on the signs of the Gregorian Zodiac.
1. Aries

"I saw Mamá kissing you yesterday," Louis tells the First Minister solemnly, peeking with big brown eyes around the corner of Aramis' big desk from where he's been playing.

Aramis' blood freezes. When he speaks, his voice is very controlled. "Is that so?"

"It is very so," the child tells him seriously. "I saw it."

"Well," and Aramis has no idea what to say to his not-son commenting on his not-father's kissing his mother, "yes. Um. That happened."

Louis looks contemplative, tapping a finger against his lips in a move he learned from Aramis himself. "Interesting."

"Interesting?" Aramis says weakly. He wishes he had a drink.

"Very." The little king looks quite content patiently pondering the explosive information he just dropped on Aramis like a pile of bricks.

"Majesty," Aramis starts, having no idea where to start.

"Aramis," Louis replies calmly, blinking.

Aramis puts his face in his hands. " _Dios,_ I don't know how to do this." He runs his hands through his hair, leaving it even more uncontrollable than normal, and looks up at his not-son. "Your Mamá loves you a lot, Majesty."

"Of course." Louis still sounds bemused by Aramis' breakdown. "I am her favorite king ever."

"Of course." He really, _really_ wishes he had a drink.

"Is my Mamá your favorite queen ever?" Louis wants to know, raising his eyebrows in another of Aramis' moves and crossing his arms dramatically.

The irony that Louis is decimating Aramis emotionally using strategies implicitly learned from the not-father he is confronting about kissing his mother doesn't go unnoticed. "Your Mamá is my favorite person ever, Majesty." He pauses. "Directly after you."

Louis looks pleased. "Well, that's good, then." He settles back down behind the desk to continue his play.

The First Minister closes his eyes and slowly lets out a breath, rubbing his temples. He swears he's lost five years of his life to this conversation. He's almost succeeded in slowing his heartbeat until Louis pops up again.

"Can queens kiss King's Musketeers?" the little king asks innocently. When Aramis whips his head up again, Louis has an expression of butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth innocence _Aramis directly taught him_ pasted on his face.

(Sometimes Aramis regrets that the queen is saddled with a child that shares his blood. Most of the time, that sentiment stems from worry about their safety. Now, he just mentally sends an apology—again— to his saintly mother for everything she had to deal with him doing as a child. He's not sure how she survived it.)

Aramis blinks, then swallows harshly. "Well," and his voice is hoarse to his own ears, "it rather matters what _you_ think about that, Majesty."

Louis ponders that for a moment. " _V_ _eeeeery_ interesting."

"Do I pass?" Aramis cracks. There's a note of anxiety running under the humor in his voice.

"Ask her that," Louis shrugs, and shoots him a conspiratorial grin. " _Mamá_ is the most brilliant person in the world and if she passes you, I pass you. _Por supuesto, te quiero también_ ," he adds matter-of-factly in the native tongue of his mother and his First Minister, and Aramis bows his head as if in prayer, smile cracking open his face like sun through clouds.

"As I, you, Majesty," he says, and Louis goes back to playing behind Aramis' desk and the day continues on as normal.

* * *

When he sprints into Anne's bedroom later that evening and catches her up in his arms and kisses her and spins her around in exhilaration, she can't help but laugh, caught up in his joy. "What happened?" she asks through giggles.

"You gave me the world," Aramis sings, squishing his nose against her face like a puppy begging for attention, "for you _are_ my world; you are _el sol radiante y la luna de plata;_ you are Shakespeare's rich jewel in the Ethiope's ear upon the cheek of the night—"

He's trembling and laughing and holding her so tightly and she loves him so deeply it hurts. She knows it must have to do with their son. "Does he know?" she murmurs, softly pressing her lips under his ear.

" _No me importa_ , _querida_ ," he whispers back, lips seeking out hers, hungry now where they'd been playful moments before, "for now I know I am loved by him, and by you, and God in all His glory has granted me an undeserved heaven in your arms."

"My most beloved," and there's nothing more she gets out before he's swept her up and onto her bed and then after that, all that spills from her lips is the desperate cadence of his name.


	2. Taurus

Sometimes, when Anne is asleep, Aramis tells her love poems in Spanish.

" _Apenas te ha dejado,"_ he murmurs into his lover's hair as he lies with her on her bed, " _vas en mí, cristalina o temblorosa, o inquieta, herida por mi mismo, o colada de amor, como cuando tus ojos se cierran sobre el don de la vida que sin cesar te entrego."_

At odds with her composed court demeanor, Anne prefers to sleep in an undignified heap of slick, tangled limbs. He wonders if it's because the only time she's really allowed to take up space is in unconsciousness.

" _Amor mío, nos hemos encontrado sedientos y nos hemos bebido toda el agua y la sangre."_

(He wishes she could let her rage flare, incandescent, in public more often instead of stifling it under regal, coded words. He thinks she'd be glorious with a sword if she chose to wield it.)

"Beloved?" Anne's voice is soft, sleepy. She rolls to nuzzle into the curve of his throat. "Why are you awake?"

"I just wanted to look at you," he says, "you're so beautiful."

She presses her lips tenderly to his collarbone. "I heard you speaking Spanish. It brought me from my dreams."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

Rubbing her cheek into his shoulder, she wraps her body closer around his. "No, please, don't be. I love the sound of your voice. And I miss my language." Her words mush into a gigantic yawn. "Will you finish?"

After all they've been through, she looks at him with love softening her eyes, lips parted like petals waiting for rain. " _Nos_ _encontramos con hambre, y nos mordimos como el fuego muerte dejándonos heridos,"_ he quietly starts again, and tucks her close to him. " _Pero espérame, guárdame tu dulzura. Yo te daré también una rosa."_

* * *

 _Poem:_ "Ausencia" _by Pablo Neruda_

* * *

 _I have scarcely left you_

 _when you go in me, crystalline,_

 _or trembling,_

 _or uneasy, wounded by me_

 _or overwhelmed with love, as when your_

 _eyes_

 _close upon the gift of life_

 _that without cease I give you._

 _"My love,_

 _we have found each other_

 _thirsty and we have_

 _drunk up all the water and the blood;_

 _we have found each other_

 _hungry_

 _and we bit each other_

 _as fire bites,_

 _leaving wounds in us._

 _But wait for me,_

 _keep for me your sweetness._

 _I will give you too_

 _a rose."_


	3. Gemini

_Content summary: centers on PTSD from combat._

* * *

She's the queen of France and he's her First Minister and no one knows that he sneaks into her room through the window every night after the rest of the palace retires.

Sometimes he's aching for her already, drinking in her cornflower-blue gaze with the eyes of a starving man. Sometimes he's drawn taut by the stress of the day, mind still occupied by the paperwork strewn on his desk. Sometimes he drops down on her, playful as a puppy, and showers her face with sloppy kisses until she bursts out laughing and pushes him off the bed.

She's the queen of France and he's her First Minister and no one knows that he still wakes up choking back screams when snow blankets the ground outside.

The first time it happens, he slips out of bed as quietly as he can and pads to the window to look out on the white gardens and reassure himself of the absence of vivid red, blossoming like brutal poppies against the snow. His lover doesn't say a word, just slips up behind him to wrap a blanket around his shoulders to ward off the December chill. He wraps a hand around her wrist when she steps back. "Stay."

She can feel him trembling. "I will call the servants, have them make the room warm for you."

"No," and he turns in her arms to fix her with a dark, desperate gaze that makes her swallow, "I want you."

"I—" she gets out before he's pushing her back, hot hands everywhere at once and oh-so-talented mouth dipping under the neckline of her shift. "I—!"

"You're the warmest thing I have," he murmurs. He's already hard, blood pounding for her. "Make me forget, Ana, please."

She's the queen of France and he's her First Minister and no one knows that he reassures himself of his own life between her thighs, or that when he comes she clasps him to her and rocks him while he cries into the curve of her throat in huge, gasping sobs.

"Shh, _querido,_ " she murmurs in soft Spanish, " _estás aquí conmigo. Hará calor otra vez._ _Estoy aquí, mi amor más profundo."_

He knows eventually the memories of poppies blooming on the snow will fade, but for now he lets himself be soothed by the cadence of his native tongue and the soft heat of her body against his.


	4. Cancer

"Aramis, _Aramis,"_ she sobs when he flicks his tongue between her thighs and pins her wrists over her head with a hand. "Please—"

"Shh, _querida,"_ he soothes, circling his fingers over a delicate pink nipple until it darkens to russet. "Wait."

"I've _been_ waiting, _pendejo—"_

He loves it when she breaks back into Spanish and swears in moments of extreme ire. "For a Spanish _infanta,_ you have an impressive grasp of common pejorative."

" _Aramis!"_

He grins cheekily and ducks his head back down, lapping at her with practiced ease. As soon as he feels her start to gasp and shudder with an impending orgasm, he stops. "Have I told you how much your cursing turns me on?"

She stares up at him in incredulous irritation. "Aramis," she says with careful precision, "if you don't finish what you've started _right now,_ I will _personally_ have you disemboweled."

" _Sí, señora."_

(As actions under pain of death go, he muses when she bites back a scream and arches up prettily against him, it could be worse.)


	5. Leo

He's barely entered the room when he's seized by his collar and flung bodily onto the bed. He goes instinctively for his sword before realizing that the only threat in the room lies in the slim frame of his lover, stalking towards him from the door. He gulps, staring up at her from his prone position. _Not to say that petite package is not intimidating as all hell._

She's pissed. That much is clear from her flaring, gaslight-blue eyes and the strong clench of her jaw, hair loose and nearly sparking with irritation. He lets his gaze lick appreciatively over her body while he still can— a fucked-off Anne is a fucking _gorgeous_ Anne and he doesn't plan to let this opportunity to ogle his lover slide past. Sadly, finding out what's angered her and obliterating it takes priority over memorizing the curves of her breasts.

"Ana," he begins, "what—"

"Council." She kicks off her heels and climbs up to straddle him on the bed. "Clothes off. Now."

 _Ah._ He grins. _One of_ those _meetings._ He knows how much she hates the Council— she once called them a gaggle of "overinflated, underdisciplined, moldy cheese-rinds," a description he wholeheartedly endorsed— and has a habit of leaving the meetings incensed for one reason or another. Sometimes she slams off to sit in the palace gardens and rant about their newest shenanigans— " _Tile regulations!_ They're refusing to pay their taxes until I adjust _tile regulations! Hijos de puta_!"— and throw bread at the ducks until she's cooled down enough to negotiate. Sometimes she breaks her china. Sometimes she takes out that fury on him, and, lord, he loves that option.

"Don't _smirk_ at me," the queen growls, ripping open his shirt in apparent impatience at his pace. Not needing any more encouragement, he fastens his mouth to her shoulder and starts kissing up her throat and unbuttoning his trousers, "you don't know what they _did_ to metoday."

"What did they— _oh my God—_ do today?" he asks, light tone cracking into a breathless gasp when she yanks open his pants and wraps a fist around his cock. "Tile— _Santa María—_ regulations?" He bites hard into the curve between her shoulder and neck, soundly enjoying the needy little noise she makes in response.

"No," she says, making him groan with a new pattern of heavy strokes over the head of his cock, " _paper thickness._ " He's not sure what face he's making at her but he's confident it's quite inappropriate in relation to the expression _paper thickness_ deserves in her eyes. "I have an _entire country to nurse back to health_ and they want to talk about _paper thickness!"_

"Mm-hm," he manages to gasp out this time. Her pace increases and he thinks he's going to die. _How in God's name is she so good at this? She's supposed to be the virginal queen of goddamn France!_

The decisively not-virginal queen of goddamn France twists her fist around his cock and looks like she wants to rip out someone's throat. He thinks, at this point, he'd find that sexy. "And these stuck-up, spoiled _men_ are so used to having it their _own way_ on the lands _given to them by the Crown_ that they have the _audacity_ to look me in the eye and say, 'No, let's not talk about the roads or the water or plague relief— let's talk about God-be-damned _paper thickness!"_ Her voice has risen to a snarl. "Damn it all," and— _oh, fucking Christ, oh, Lord—_ she replaces her hand with her hips— "how am I supposed to get anything done with a council full of pampered _asses?"_

He's not sure there's any coherent thought running through his mind unrelated to what she's doing with her hips as she slams herself down on his cock because _oh_ she's hot and rippling around him and that _whimper_ she makes when he snaps his hips up into her is just so delicious he wants to hear it again and again—

" _Harder_ , Aramis," she gasps, head bowed forward, lost in sensation, _and who is he to deny his queen anything?_ She lets him take charge then and he oh-so-happily indulges her, flipping them over with a powerful twist of his shoulders and pressing his lover chest-down into the mattress. She fists her skirts up around her waist in invitation and he happily rips a scream from her when he shoves into her from behind.

(He delights in the softness he and his queen can bring to their lovemaking, teasing out dark decadent orgasms amidst buttery kisses, but there's something about _Anne_ and a good rough _fuck_ that sends something filthy and burning hot curling through his abdomen every time.)

God, he _loves_ council meetings.


	6. Virgo

When Louis turns nineteen, he grows his facial hair in a neatly-trimmed mustache and goatee to "honor his First Minister."

Aramis bursts into laughter when he first sees his not-son sporting his own facial hair. The combination of the style and the king's own heavily-lashed dark eyes, impish grin, and sharp jawline only emphasized by the goatee turns Louis into Aramis' younger doppelgänger. "You look like a musketeer."

Louis strokes his goatee thoughtfully. "I rather do, don't I."

(Later, Anne bans Louis from ever doing it again because it "isn't kingly" but smiles to herself when she thinks of it.)

(It does look very handsome on the First Minister, after all, and who is she to dissuade her son from emulating the best?)


	7. Libra

Louis scandalizes the entire court when he lets a string of absolutely _obscene_ Spanish curses out in reaction to a bill he's handed.

Most of the audience is just appalled by the French king speaking _Spanish_ ; the heritage of his mother has been, after all, a sore point for much of her reign. The Spanish ambassador, present to validate the signing of a treaty later in the week, gapes in horrified awe at the king as Louis tears the bill in half.

"This—" and he inserts a list of expletives that make the ambassador blanch, "—is utter _drivel_ on behalf of the nobles."

"Majesty," one of the councilmen stutters, "it is a jointly-signed petition that—"

"—the Crown will _not_ be granting, hmm?" Louis smiles. The expression does not soothe. "I'm _so_ glad we're on the same page." He stands and cocks an eyebrow at the petitioners. "You're dismissed."

* * *

When Aramis hears of the king's Spanish debacle, he collapses into full-body guffaws. The French court would inevitably blame the king's breach of etiquette on his half-Spaniard First Minister, and he wishes he could see their faces if they knew he'd once walked in on a regal ex- _infanta_ teaching her small son how to curse like a sailor in Spanish. _I refuse to let him remain incomplete in his linguistic inheritance,_ she'd told him haughtily at the time when he'd doubled over, laughing. _He must know how to express himself both properly and with the appropriate creativity._

* * *

"You're a bad influence," he murmurs later in her bed. "You've corrupted him."

She smirks and wraps her arms around his neck. "If you don't mind, I'd rather focus on the corruption of my son tomorrow and spend tonight focused on the corruption of _you."_

"I think I can work with that," he grins, and pulls her in to explore just how much of a bad influence she can be.


	8. Scorpio

_Content summary: centers on physical trauma, contains graphic descriptions of blood and physical wounds._

* * *

All she can see is red.

Red, staining the table like a field of blood. Red, dripping from Porthos' fluttering fingers. Red, puddling on the floor, an overworld pyriphlegathon. Red, red, red.

" _Majesty_ , _you need to leave_!" she hears Athos shouting as if through a fog. She's entertained he thinks she can move. There's red rising in her throat, thick and metallic, and it nauseates her.

So much red. It must be hers, she thinks.

Except it's not; it belongs to the musketeer bleeding to death in front of her on the stone ground after taking a shot meant for her directly to the chest. But _he_ belongs to her and so his life, spilling out onto the tiles, is hers and his blood is hers and she's choking on coppery red with him too.

"Athos, we need to get him out of here _now!"_ Porthos bellows over the din of the musketeers now closing in around the felled would-be-assassin. "He's not going to make it unless we get him help!" His normally swarthy face is parchment white under streaks of dripping red. _Aramis_ ' _red_.

" _Dammit—_ " and Athos is at her side, hooking an arm around her waist and bodily heaving her away from the balcony— "get him inside! We'll take care of him there!" He's dragging her away from the balcony.

She resists. "No, _no,_ let me go! Aramis—"

"—is going inside now and you're coming with us," he growls. "You're not leaving him. Now, Majesty, _we need to go!"_

The red, red stones fade away as she follows him.

* * *

"Come on, buddy," Porthos hisses, jamming cloths into the horrific hole in Aramis' chest. "Come _on!"_

Constance shoves a bowl of boiling water at Athos to bathe the surgical tools. Athos looks panicked. "Where's the doctor?"

"Not here yet," Constance says.

Porthos winces. "Fuck. Okay." He pounds a fist into the table next to Aramis' limp head. "Hear that, buddy? Hang on until the doctor gets here."

Aramis's lips part in a tiny, pained gasp. "Keep talking," Constance commands as she rolls out the sanitized instruments. "Because this bullet is going to be a bitch to get out."

Anne can't tear her eyes from her beloved's agonized face. She sees red, red, red. Athos pulls her back away from the table, pushing her to the side of the room. Someone clasps her shoulders; she looks up at D'Artagnan, face drawn and pale. "We need to stand back, Majesty. They're going to need space."

She opens her mouth, realizes there's nothing to say, closes it again, and lets D'Artagnan gently move her across the room from the bloody scene unfolding on the table. Her words come out in gasps when she tries to speak.

"Most this'll do is give you a new scar," Porthos is saying loudly, "and that shouldn't cause any problems because you can't get any uglier. Yeah?"

Aramis' lips move, just barely, and Anne thinks he tells Porthos to jam a portion of his anatomy somewhere unlikely possible.

"Hold him," Constance says to Athos and Porthos, and digs the tongs into Aramis' shattered chest. Aramis' eyes go huge and he _screams_ before collapsing, limp, to the table.

"Shit, shit, shit," Porthos is hissing, fingers at Aramis' throat. " _Constance?"_

"I need to— just—" she twists the tongs and Anne hears something _scrape_ inside Aramis' chest that, on a profoundly obvious level, _absolutely should not be scraping_. "Got it." She withdraws the dripping tool. With it comes a little black ball. _Funny how such a small item can rupture six lives at once._

"Is he there?" Athos' tone is rigidly calm.

Porthos is wrapping bandages around Aramis' chest again. "Barely," he murmurs, "but the bastard's strong. He'll make it."

"He'll make it?" Anne whispers, and all the musketeers and Constance jump at the sound of her high, tight voice, as if they'd forgotten she was there. "He'll live?"

"Majesty," D'Artagnan starts, but Constance is already moving towards her to catch her as she crumples to the ground. Red pulses against the backs of her eyelids. She's sticky with it.

"Anne, Anne," Constance murmurs into her ear as she chokes for air with the taste of copper on her tongue. "Please, Majesty, you have to breathe— come on, Majesty—!"

"Athos?" The garrison doctor pushes open the door and blanches. "Oh, _fuck_." He sets to work fluttering over Aramis' prone body.

(She can't breathe. Everything is red, red, red.)

"Ana." Her name, breathed through chalky lips, cuts through her panic attack. She whips her head up, shuddering, peering desperately at her beloved around the stocky frame of the doctor. The musketeer looks back at her with slitted brown eyes hazy with pain. " _No te abandonaré._ 'M yours." His eyes slip shut again and his body relaxes.

 _Oh, Aramis, Aramis._ She clutches a fist to her mouth, willing her body to stop screaming for air. Constance is fluttering over her and she shakily shoos the brunette over to D'Artagnan to fuss over him instead. "Very well, then," she says out loud. Her voice is still strained, but she commends herself on keeping it level. "Athos and I will return to the palace and inform the king of these happenings.

Porthos lets out a breath she wasn't aware he was holding. "Very good, Majesty."

Spinning on her heel, she stalks from the garrison.

(She feels a burst of pride that she only collapses against the wall on tottering knees once on the way out.)

Athos follows her, steps soft on the wood. "He'll recover, Majesty," he says in his gentle baritone. "He's had worse than this before."

She turns her face away. "Not by protecting me, he hasn't."

* * *

"Thank God he missed you, Anne," Louis effuses, and all she can think is that the assassin had hit her heart as effectively as if he'd shot her in the chest.

She bows her head and smiles politely at him. "Thank you, my king."


	9. Sagittarius

In September, Anne's second son is born early with a full head of untamable black hair and Treville runs Aramis through with a sword at breakfast.

"Son of a _bitch!_ " Aramis shouts, standing up and examining his bleeding abdomen before glaring at Treville. "What in the living _fuck_ was that for?"

"You— I'm going to _murder_ you," Treville snarls, advancing on the musketeer with death in his eyes. "You idiotic, insolent, thick-headed—"

"Captain?" D'Artagnan and Porthos gape up at the fuming, red-faced officer. Aramis curses and starts wadding up his waist-tie to staunch the wound.

"Is something wrong?" Athos, ever the voice of reason, inquires calmly from where he leans against the wall.

" _Yes_ , something is wrong! He _stabbed_ me!" Aramis complains. "You're lucky this is superficial. It would be a shame if I _died._ "

"Have you seen the king's newest son?" Treville hisses at the musketeers, ignoring the marksman's dramatics. "Born early, so a surprise to everyone. Got his mother's big blue eyes. Got his _father's—"_ and he turns slitted eyes on Aramis where the half-Spaniard has frozen with a hand pressed to his abdomen— " _tan_ skin and mass of _wild, curly black hair._ "

D'Artagnan chokes. Athos buries his face in his hands. Porthos throws his full plate of food at Aramis. "In _God's name, Aramis—"_

"The king has black curly hair!" The marksman protests half-heartedly, "and the queen's brother is tan-skinned—"

"We're all going to die," Athos mutters into his palms.

" _He's,"_ Porthos jabs a fork at Aramis, "going to die."

"If you keep _stabbing_ me, I will," Aramis mutters sulkily, wringing blood out of his shirt.

It's D'Artagnan's turn to chuck his breakfast at him.

"We always knew you were a harlot," Porthos grumbles, ignoring Aramis' indignant _Hey!_ "But couldn't you have at least been a harlot with a sense of _impulse control?"_

Aramis scowls. _"_ You know, I'm feeling very attacked right now."

Treville hurls a dish at his head.


	10. Capricorn

Aramis ends up being the one to teach Louis about God.

"Aramis," the little king interrupts him at prayer one day, "why do we like God so much?" When Aramis opens his eyes to look at the boy, Louis flushes. "I mean— I know I love God, and He loves me, but I'm just not sure _why._ " He bites his lip. "I didn't want to ask Father Jacques because I thought he would be mad at me for not understanding."

Aramis stands from where he's kneeling in front of the altar, groaning as his knees creak. _Not quite so young anymore, eh?_ "Come, sit." He nods at one of the frontmost pews. "What brought this on?"

"I saw Mamá crying when she prayed," Louis tells him in a rush, "and I asked her if it hurt, and she said, no, it just filled her with so much feeling she had to cry. And then she hugged me." He adds the last part with a seven-year-old's disdain for his mother's weirdness.

"I see." He does. Anne has always had a profound connection to her God; they both maintain very private relationships with their faith, choosing to pray alone, but he knows how much solace she takes in speaking to God and receiving His comfort. "I only know what I think, Majesty, but I think the reason I love God is that I believe His message is the most beautiful thing in the world."

"His message?" Louis blinks. "Like, 'thou shalt not kill?'"

"That one certainly doesn't hurt," allows Aramis, "but I mean His message that the way to Heaven is by discovering the spirit of God in each other. In freeing the captive, in clothing the naked and feeding the hungry. We find salvation in love, and there is nothing God wants more for us than to seek out that love."

"Oh." Louis looks contemplative, then brightens. "That makes a lot of sense. God just wants us to care for each other?"

"God just wants us to care for each other," the First Minister confirms softly with a smile. "And He wants each of us to discover the meaning in His message in our own way, at our own pace. Your Mamá finds that through her prayer, as do I."

Louis' eyes stretch wide. "Where should I look?"

"He is _here,_ " Aramis lets a finger brush against the little king's forehead, "when you think of the wonder in the world today. And he is here—" he gestures to his eyes— "when you see the love shared between two people. And he is here—" and he presses a gentle hand to Louis' heart— "when you offer that sense of wonder to and share that love with as many people as you can."

"I think those are all very nice places to find God," the little king says matter-of-factly. "No wonder Mamá cries. Loving God seems very busy."

"It's very worth it for me." Aramis closes his eyes and lets his hand run over the crucifix he still wears, dangling between his collarbones. "Sometimes, God's love has been all I've had."

"You have me," his not-son informs him a tad snarkily, "and you have Mamá. Who likes to kiss you, and you seem to like kissing her back, too." The First Minister spins, mouth opening to tell off the small monarch for his sass before catching Louis' impish grin. "Is that part of God's love too, Aramis?"

 _We raised one too smart for his own good, Ana._ " _Sí_ , _solito_ ," Aramis concedes quietly at his not-son's small smile, and the warmth that settles in his stomach when Louis takes his hand doesn't fade. "That's part of God's love too."


	11. Pisces

Querida,

 _All is quiet here on the front, save my disruptive yearning for your person._

 _The snow's been falling quickly and the nights are cold. The boys entertain themselves with cooking the most horrific creations with herbs they find in the woods. I'm convinced Porthos will give the regiment food poisoning if he keeps up the way he has._

 _D'Artagnan broke two fingers when he tried to steal Athos' dinner and Athos slammed a mug on his hand. By God, I live with barbarians._

 _Lately, I find myself longing for just one glimpse of your smile,_ amante. _Just to sustain me through this dark winter._

 _A_

* * *

 _My most beloved,_

 _It is with much joy I open your letter and imagine your sweet smile. I'm sending one of my biggest back to you. Stay warm._

 _Court is dreadfully boring without you and the musketeers to keep us entertained— sorry, I mean protected. The nobles are, as always, challenging._

 _Louis had a slight cold the past week and spent it tucked in bed, sniffly and red-nosed, waited on hand and foot by a veritable horde of servants offering tea and soups and some sort of herb cleanse. The doctor is taking his experimental studies_ very _seriously. Louis keeps demanding chocolate every time the doctor has him take a medicine. I'd disapprove if it weren't so funny to watch the maids try to soothe the doctor's ruffled feathers._

 _Philippe has started teething. I miss sleep._

 _Tell Porthos if he kills you with an unknown wild mushroom, I will be_ very _displeased with him._

 _Know that you are on my mind every moment, beloved— come back to me soon._

 _A_

* * *

Querida _,_

 _Porthos says you should have more faith in his cooking skills— he's only given the regiment fever once. We have, coincidentally, voted Athos in charge of meals. He just looks so lovely in an apron._

 _We're expecting some action this week, thank God. Everyone's itching for a good scuffle. I've polished my musket so many times I can see every pore in my face in the reflection._

 _Is Louis well? If he still is congested, feed him some of those terrible peppers D'Artagnan likes. My mother used to give me those as a child when I had a flu._

 _Tell Philippe to leave his lovely mother be. (Though, of course, she doesn't need any more beauty sleep to enchant the eye— she's already the most radiant creature to walk France.)_

 _The boys want to know what I'm writing— I told them just weaponry reports for Treville, and I'd add that they say hello. God knows the old man needs some fan mail._

 _And thus, another week ends._ _I savor every dusk and dawn that bring me closer to seeing you once again._

 _A_

* * *

 _My most beloved,_

 _We heard of the success of your battle in Paris this morning. I wish I could assure myself of your safety in person but, seeing as you've disappeared somewhere in the Pyrenees, it's probably best to stay here and anxiously await your return._

 _(Don't make that face at me,_ cariño _— I know you can take care of yourself. Allow a lonely queen some fretting over her absent knight.)_

 _Louis is fine, the little horror. He's been terrorizing the maids with the play sword Louis had made for him. I wonder if an obsession with weaponry could be hereditary?_

 _Thank God, Philippe has started sleeping through the night again. I've left him to his governesses, though I was the one who woke in the night to soothe him all through that terrible teething period. Why do we even hire these people?_

 _How are the boys? Athos' cooking?_

 _I miss you._

 _A_

* * *

Q,

 _I wish I could be there to teach him the_ really _mischievous things to do with a sword._

 _Don't talk about the cooking. Athos knows I'm writing to you and has taken to heavily over-salting all my meals in punishment. Sadist._

 _I'm glad Philippe is well again. Is the snow melting in Paris yet?_

 _I miss you too._

 _A_

* * *

 _I do not need_ another _sword-happy child running around my palace, thank you._

 _Shall I include some spices in the next letter? Save you from your fate?_

 _I think the snow plans to stay until you return._

 _Come home quickly, beloved. I ache for your company._

 _A_

* * *

Q,

 _I am a perfectly sword-stable child, thank you very much._

 _You are the_ best.

 _Treville thinks we'll be home before summer starts._

 _So… what are you wearing?_

* * *

 _Thank you. I know._

 _Thank God. The court is awful right now. Everyone is sick of being trapped inside,_ especially _my imp of a firstborn. Did I tell you he lit Madame d'Borrón's gown on fire last ball? And, when his governess captured him and went to discipline him, gave her the most_ appallingly effective _pair of puppy dog eyes I've ever seen?_ Someone _has been teaching my child naughty tricks. When you get back, we will be having_ words _._

 _Not that it's any of your business, but my gold gown with the white bodice. And the silk stockings you like._

* * *

Q,

 _Brilliant kid. No idea where he got that strategy from, though. Natural talent?_

 _Athos and D'Artagnan have the flu and have been the most obnoxious_ children _about it. All drippy and weak. Athos tried to get out of night watch because he "couldn't breathe out of his left nostril." Pathetic._

 _(I read that out loud to the boys and Athos threw his boot at me. Joke's on him— I'm keeping it. He can miss out on both his left nostril_ and _his left shoe.)_

Dios, _I love how you look in those stockings. Want you._

* * *

 _My child is_ not _a natural_ demon _. You did this to him._

 _With this letter I've sent some of those peppers you recommended for Louis— they cleared his sniffles right up. Poor Athos and D'Artagnan. You're being cruel._

 _If you were here you could take them off of me._

* * *

Q,

 _That's just not fair. I'm stuck in these blasted snowy woods getting dripped on by plague-ridden Musketeers and you're in the Louvre in silk stockings. I hate my life._

Te amo.

* * *

Te amo, _beloved…_

 _Come home to me soon._


	12. Aquarius

_Content summary: centers on the themes of miscarriage, postpartum depression, and disordered eating._

* * *

Anne loses the child in late August, a week before Louis' eighth birthday, while Aramis is in the Holy Roman Empire with her sister on a diplomatic mission.

"You must eat, Majesty," her ladies cajole to no avail. The queen turns her head away and commands them to let her be.

"Your Majesty, your body needs sustenance," the court doctor pleads. "Won't you please eat?"

"I tire of your babbling," she sighs, and has him escorted out of her chambers.

Already a slender woman, Anne becomes nearly ethereal, pliant and translucent in her mourning. Louis wants to know where his Mamá is; she refuses to see him, commanding his governesses to take him away. Philippe cries for her for a week and she shuts the doors and weeps.

She sleeps fitfully, wracked by dreams of a giggling baby with her hair and Aramis' warm brown eyes that leave her aching and hollow inside.

* * *

The queen appears for the first time in court after a week of near-seclusion, almost ephemeral in a gown of darkest gray. The nobles treat her with care as if approaching a dangerous animal and her ladies murmur behind her back. The royal seamstresses start taking in the bodices of her gowns.

(Still she doesn't eat, only picking at the barest portion of her meals. The cooks prepare their most delicious recipes to tempt her appetite and she smiles at their kindness and pushes her plate away.)

(Her heart is empty, after all, and no delicacy will fill the gaping wound in her soul.)

Louis frets and Philippe misses his mother and Anne can't even look at them.

* * *

After three weeks of the queen's fading into sylphlike shadow, the doctor sends for Aramis.

* * *

"Ana. Eat."

Her beloved's voice echoes in the stillness of her chamber. She turns her head slightly from where she's curled in the window seat, basking in the afternoon sun.

(She's always cold these days.)

" _Ana._ "

She startles back to attention. "You've returned."

"Why have you abandoned your sons?" Aramis asks. His voice is colder than it's ever been when speaking to her. "Your children need you. You must come back."

The sun is so warm on her cheeks and she closes her eyes, turning her face up to the window. "I _can't_."

"Ana," and he's there, crumpling at her side, dropping his head to her lap. She runs a hand through his soft hair, still dark despite the threads of silver. " _You must."_

"Aramis—"

"Come back to them. Come back to _me."_ He holds her hands to his lips as if in prayer. "Ana, I'm begging you. You are _dying_ here. Please. _Please_ , live."

"My son is dead," she says.

He tilts her eyes to his. "Your _sons_ live _."_

"I can't forget," she chokes out, "and I feel so empty without him, Aramis. I already loved him so much." And then Anne is sobbing out the agony she's been holding back in public into his arms, soaking his hair with her tears, and Aramis trembles and cries with her, for the child was his, too. They sit in each other's embrace for a long while, sharing their pain and loss. Finally, she sniffles into his throat and wipes her eyes. "I should see Louis and Philippe."

"You should," he agrees. "But first, I'm starving. Let's have dinner."

She closes her eyes. "I don't—"

" _We are having dinner."_

" _Vale,"_ she snaps. " _Pendejo_."

He smiles, a little watery but so warm. She smiles tentatively back. "That's my girl."

"Queen," Anne corrects him out of habit, straightening her shoulders out of the slump she thought had become part of her.

"Queen," her beloved says. " _Reina querida mía."_ The doors to the room crack open; the maids slip in holding hastily-made dishes from the kitchens. They don't blink at the sight of the kneeling First Minister and the queen tucked into his arms. Aramis pulls her to her feet at their entry. "Now! The big event." He purses his lips and chooses a sweet scone. "Eat."

"Dessert before dinner?" she jokes weakly, vaguely nauseated at the thought of a full stomach.

He's unamused. "You will eat this or I will force-feed it to you."

 _Bossy bastard._ She obediently takes it and pops the corner into her mouth. _Chew. Swallow._

It doesn't taste like dust.

Aramis nods at her approvingly. "Tasty?"

She narrows her eyes. "Don't push it." Her voice is stronger, less strained. She takes another bite at his pointed glare. _Chew. Swallow._

He bows, kisses her hand, tugs her close to nuzzle her head with his lips. "We're going to be okay, _querida._ " Drawing back, he smiles at her, eyes still liquid but filled with warmth. "Now, let's see your sons."


End file.
